Of things socially appended
Subscription has been suspended
Aggrandized assigned pedestals
Are unstable not eternal

What you see is what I give you
Simple life I dear to pursue
I care not if my friend or foe
Prefer me packaged in a bow

Prompt # 7

I am not fond of pretense or hypocrisy and fitting into the status quo. This is sometimes interpreted negatively but what you see is what you get. I know I am imperfect in many ways but will not be confined to the definitions of others. I am a work in progress on an inner journey with divine help and without the frills or pretense

I have grown!
I have grown wiser;
heart has gotten stronger
My glance much longer
As I embrace age and life’s rage.

Stressors have shrunken
days have lengthened
Anger became lighter
Life has become sweeter
While I combat strife in its faceLet Earth burn with hate
I will not participate
I will anticipate the moment
Time ceases and grief releases
peace, peace, peace.

For each drop of ink, screen flares lightning,
skin pinches, brain cells break, bones ache, ears ring,
seared skin simmers, antics mount.
Night owls become nightmares in New Age predictions;
delivering each blow without blinking.
When will this stop! or will the glass ceiling pop?

Yet this consciousness says we need each other;
the evil must work for good to prosper.
Poor needs rich, East needs West, North needs South,
good needs bad to complete the whole.
Unless- the compromise rests or lies in a well-liked word
named Love.

I cannot cover the hole or turn away
I cannot cover the hole in my soul unless –
Unless I can articulate the source of my pain

My country has birthed me
I was taught pride in self and nation
Pride in my tongue; knowing where it belonged
Pride in my skin and in who I am
Respect for the human family.
I cannot cover the hole in my soul unless –
Unless I can recognize what life tossed at me
and know exactly what’s really mine

My country has birthed me
I was not taught the subtleties of racism,
Injustice, human indignity, warped equality.
I now recognize the relativity of democracy, free speech,
and thoughts-only after I exposed my insensibility
I cannot cover the hole in my soul until –
Until I can reconcile my confusion, pain
and disappointment in humanity

My country has birthed me
I was taught to take people at their word
I cannot cover the hole in my soul unless-
Unless I can articulate the source of my pain.

Amidst the disquiet the village slept. The pregnant silence belied the undercurrent that had impaired the community over the past month. Pancho showed no qualms about his nocturnal mission as he jostled his wiry frame through the thicket that bordered Crawhill Cemetery. He brushed the thorns from his trousers with bare hands then sauntered towards his goal that lay straight ahead. An eerie feeling engulfed him as a huge rodent scampered across his path.

Bow wow! What the hell?” Pancho hissed as he slid then propelled on to the moist grass before regaining his composure. He hastened towards the object of his intent while wallowing in the splendid delight of the grey tombstones drenched in the golden moonlight before him. His stomach rumbled in excitement as he contemplated the mammoth cache of goodies that awaited him in the god forsaken hell hole sepulchers. Pancho swerved towards a freshly occupied pair of tombs and disappeared into the bowel of the graveyard to claim the object of his midnight rendezvous. If he worked fast enough he should be able to raid the work-site where the new bridge was being erected before the moon waned.

Back in Crawhill, dreams evolved into nightmares especially in the Colan household. The tragedy of the double drowning was still raw and has left the family members alternating between bouts of fitful slumber and deep sorrowful thoughts. More agonizing to their emotional turmoil was the rumour making the round that the Colan twins did not actually drown in the community tank as was recorded by the Coroner; but rather they had been murdered. Beka, the twins’ eldest sister and guardian, opened her eyes for the umpteenth time that night and shivered as a familiar chill ran down her spine. Her face too felt stiff and cold but she soon drifted off into another half stupor.

Bang! ploi! bloi! Frightened by the explosions, Beka shot up from the wooden bed; her cold feet hitting the concrete floor like a sledge-hammer! This was no nightmare, she thought to herself.

“What in the name of …?” Beka froze with wide-eyed questioning as more shots rang out seemingly from the four corners of the Colan’s homestead. In seconds her cold face transformed into a sweaty mess as she crouched on all fours under the comfort of her bed. In unison with her consternation, the rest of the household and village sprang to life in response to the midnight racket.

“Wai!” little Markie, Beka’s two year old squealed at the top of his lungs not knowing what to make of the chaos outside his window. As the turmoil died, Beka dragged herself from under the iron bed and tiptoed into Markie’s room. Arms outstretched, Markie turned flushed face towards Beka’s eyes in relief and plunged into her arms as she reached down to scoop him to her bosom. Time stood still as sporadic explosions gradually retreated into the distance to reveal stifled whimpering of canine and people alike. Moments later, there was deathly silence. No one dared to peek outside or breathe as the village watchmen disappeared among the shadows of the trees that cloaked the Colan’s residence and the outskirt of the community.

Meanwhile, as Pancho retraced his steps homeward through the familiar thicket that skirted the Crawhill cemetery, the smell of death consumed his senses and a sudden grip of fear permeated his very soul. He paused long enough to sniff the musky night air then listened for the familiar rant of the night creatures that entertained him earlier on. Every sound was muted! His matted hair seemed to be standing on end as he struggled under the weight of his precious cargo. It was this fearful instinct that propelled him into the shadows of the huge guango tree just in the nick of time before a seemingly frenzied creäture dashed past leaving many startled night insects in its wake. What or who it was, Pancho could not decide as the sudden disruption to the tranquil night petered out in the far distance heading towards the dry riverbed on the other side of Crawhill. Remnants of a pungent acrid smell of smoke or sulphur left Pancho nonplussed as to his close calamity. Pancho wasted little time as he limped back on to the beaten trail that led to his house in the distance. By then, the moon had died to a pale light and the shadows of the overhanging trees played havoc with Pancho’s heart and head.

As he sauntered towards the back of his house, his neighbour’s dog initiated a gut wrenching howl that reverberated around the village where other animals and cracked windows accompanied the village mongrels in their spontaneous ensemble. Lights now burned brightly in each window creating a surreal Christmas effect amidst the chaos. Luckily for Pancho, the canopy of trees in his yard provided enough cover for him to conceal his loot before retreating to the safety of his beaten down back door that invited him into the darkness of his bedroom.

The Colan’s house next door was in darkness but Pancho could hear muffled sounds floating through a window upstairs. He pulled the curtain shut while trying to shake the eerie feeling that he was being watched from outside.

“Who is there? a shaky voice croaked from across the concrete fence. “Misa Pancho, yuh a rait? The concerned voice queried.

‘Why should I not be okay?’ Pancho mused to himself. He tiptoed to his single bed and sank into its soft comfort with a sigh of relief. Pancho had become accustomed to the unusual hours of the Colan family since the tragedy but the lights in the other houses in the dead of night seemed rather unusual. Unaware of the earlier events, Pancho fell into a deep sleep even as his head hit the make shift pillow. The sound of the siren and flashing lights next door or the voices of the brave at heart who ventured out to investigate the night’s proceeding did not awaken him. This decision not to respond to Beka’s query would later lead to Pancho’s demise. The moon died completely as Rebecca Colan’s motherly figure retreated from the upstairs window while quietly mulling over the reason for Pancho’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

Beka listened as Sergeant Brown explained what she had already suspected; Roshane and Oshane were both murdered then dumped into the village tank. The explosions and the fear that had disturbed the community earlier were totally forgotten amidst the dismal news that the Sergeant brought to Beka. A new symphony began as the villagers and bloodhounds alike mixed howling and wailing which travelled across the river to the other side of Crawhill. Ron Pinkett stirred in his sleep for a few minutes to listen to the mournful chorus ricocheted across the valley to grace his hearing in his luxurious mansion across Craw River. Had he known the source responsible for this invasion of his privacy, he would have probably aborted his night’s sleep. As the caretaker of Crawhill, Ron Pinkett had many civic and humanitarian roles to play in his community. However, tonight, he was not ready to forfeit his sleep to score points with the community members. Being the owner of Pinkett Constructions and a co-owner of Pinkett &Pinkett Jewelers left little time for his custodial duties, however, he tried to carry them out as best was humanly possible. As a member of the school board of Crawhill High, he was the first person to show up at the school once the news of the drowned boys became known to the community. Moreover, he had given personal support to the family in both deeds and kind. Oshane and Roshane were well-loved in the community so his gift of two gold pins displaying their names noticeably stood out on the breast pocket of the white shirt that adorned each corpse at the viewing during the funeral ceremony. What more could the community ask of their benevolent caretaker?

The clouds hung oppressively low over the mountains surrounding Crawhill, however, the Sunday morning rays rose confidently to meet the new day and wilted the animal carcasses that strewn the pathway leading to Beka’s small farm on the plot of land at the far corner of the family property. Mixed with the stench of the dead animals was the lingering scent of the sulphur from the fire crackers that the village boys had tossed at the prowler or prowlers that night. As the evidence became clearer, groups of community members met to discuss the racket of the night before. Praedial larceny has become common-place in the community of Crawhill. The older boys in the community had met in their youth clubs and decided to do something about it. Mr. Pinkett’s suggestion of a neighbourhood watch has evolved into a vigilante type response to any action against the ordinary folks of Crawhill. The use of the fire cracker was secretly planned by these boys and executed with the desired effect of instilling fear in would be thieves.

The tale of the slaughtered animals became stale news within an hour and the news of murder became the topic of choice for the people of Crawhill. After much speculation, the community settled into their Sunday routine with a heavy heart. Pancho pushed his wooden door and gingerly made his way towards the shack in his yard where he had locked away his treasures the night before. He greeted Miss Beka in his usual chirpy Sunday morning voice on his way back but she merely reciprocated with a furtive look and a grunt in response to his trouble. The pungent smell of the fire cracker emanating from Miss Beka’s yard had Pancho’s senses tingling. The smell rekindled the anxiety he felt during his unexplained encounter the night before. He soon noticed the remnants from the fire cracker strewn about his neighbour’s yard and wondered about their origin. His gut instinct hinted at imminent trouble and so he thought it best not to comment about the smell less he had to explain his lack of knowledge of whatever had upset Miss Beka or accounted for the display of ammunition in her yard.

Covert and overt glances and whispers followed Pancho as he made his way to Miss Laylor’s shop nearby. Pancho’s mind was in turmoil that escalated after he greeted a group of men playing dominoes outside the entrance to Miss Laylor’s shop and on cue, the men all left without responding. As he pushed his gate, he was greeted by a group of dogs having banter over the carcass of a furry white goat that resembled that of Miss Beka’s prized ram. Pancho knocked on the gate to Miss Beka’s home to raise an alarm but turned just in time to see an angry mob with seemingly ill intent marching towards him with sticks and cutlasses ready for battle. Pancho summed up the situation in mid-air as he scaled the fence and headed along the familiar path that he traveled hours earlier. In a jiffy, he entered the confines of the cemetery where he knew not many would dare to venture. He found refuge between two of the bodies he had desecrated the night before. In the silence of the twinned sepulchre, Pancho assessed his dilemma. The familiar smell of embalmed flesh did not deter his thoughts as he listened for any intrusion from the exterior of his new abode.

“Man a fi iit a bred an piipl niid wuk,” Pancho consoled himself, his knitted eyebrows forming deep furrows across the ridge of his face. He burrowed himself between the two caskets and fell asleep. His dreams took him to the last encounter he had with the twins who had frequented the construction site near the water tank on many occasions prior to their untimely passing.

The global recession has seen many informal economic activities burgeoning in rural communities such as Crawhill. The ‘cash for gold’ and the ‘scrap metal’ industries have both taken root across the country and have become the lifeline for many including Pancho. In addition, an increase in incidents of praedial larceny also became common practice. Many metal frames from bridges, manhole covers and even relics from four generations earlier have been dismantled and sold as scrap metals all over this pristine Caribbean country.

It was being rumoured that the ready markets for both merchandise was headed by the upstanding Mr. Pinkett who was accessible to all thus providing a ready outlet for the fencing of anything metallic that could be carted away. So it was a month ago when Pancho had overheard the alert twins reporting to Mr. Pinkett, in his capacity as the caretaker of the community, that they had stumbled upon a stock pile of metal frames that were seemingly taken from the work-site of the new bridge. The pile was hidden near the village water tank, they had told him. Pancho watch as the newly appointed foreman, Simon, who was busily sorting some rods in a shed outside paused long enough to listen to the shatter inside before making his way behind the shed towards the village.

“Thanks for the vigilance boys, I will take care of the matter,” Ron Pinkett had offered in consolation to the upset twins. That was the last Oshane and Roshane were seen alive.

When the bodies turned up in the murky waters of the village tank a few days later, Pancho felt an unease that he could not explain. He had shaken the thought that kept circling in his head since he has known Mr. Pinkett to be a model family man and community leader despite rumours of him dabbling in the thriving cash for gold and scrap metal trade enterprises. As far as Pancho knew, these were legitimate deals with little questions being asked when the goods were received by the contacts on the ground. Pancho did not tell anyone of the twin’s encounter with Mr. Pinkett at the site two days before they were reported missing as he did not want to cause any unfounded trouble or suspicion towards the caretaker and his family. Pancho is well aware of how rumours and mischief can easily spread in this mostly closely knitted community.

The sound of barking dogs in the distance soon brought Pancho back to the land of the living. Now that Pancho was on the run, he considered making his way to Mr. Pinkett for protection but felt the familiar knot in his stomach in response to the thought. Pancho stretched and scratched his head trying to figure out why the villagers had set upon him that morning. He was almost certain no one had seen him the night before. Little did Pancho know that he was the only neighbour who was not seen outside after the commotion that fateful night and to the self-styled village watchmen that made him a prime suspect for the slaughter of the animals and probably murder!

The news of the near lynching reached the village lawmen an hour later. Sergeant Brown was not amused. Vigilante style justice will not be tolerated under his watch. Moreover, he had his reservation about Pancho’s guilt for both alleged crimes as was reported to him by a foreman from Pinkett’s Construction site. A routine check of Pancho’s house revealed nothing of interest.

“Brr! Brring! The ringtone on Sergeant Brown’s Smartphone continued to voicemail as he came to a halt at the half opened door to the outhouse in Pancho’s yard. “Mama mia! what have we got here?” the lawman queried while staring at what awaited behind the half opened door of the outhouse. Metals of varying lengths and sizes were stacked against the inner walls while familiar sacks with Pinkett Construction insignia added to the interesting find. The whereabouts of the metal brackets removed from the incomplete new bridge in the neighbouring community had been a major puzzle for the lawman and his team for the past month. He was more taken aback by the find in the pocket of an old denim jacket thrown over an empty sack on the floor. The names on the two golden pins that were among the jewelery items made the sergeant even more shocked at the discovery. “Is someone trying to mask a setup?” Sergeant Brown asked himself. He placed a call to his superior in the neighbouring town and sought personnel to crack the case and capture Pancho before the inevitable village onslaught.

Meanwhile, Pancho resolved to his fate, made his way into the open to view the source of the barking hounds that seemed to be getting closer by the minute. He was relieved upon seeing Sergeant Brown with two other officers bringing up the rear along with Mr. Pinkett and his plant foreman both tightly tethered to the chains of two deadly looking Doberman bloodhounds. As they crossed the open field, Pancho shook uncontrollably staring down the barrels of the M16 the approaching officers were pointing at him. He was not sure what to make of the presence of Mr, Pinkett and his foreman and was consciously relieved when he noticed a group of boys in the distance observing these proceedings.

Sergeant Brown beamed “You are charged with the murder…,” Pancho was deaf to everything else that was said as the arresting officer shut the handcuff around his wrists and propelled him forward with a push. He sighed deeply and pondered the new hell hole that awaited him in the cell in the neighbouring town. Suddenly his thoughts were shattered and fear gripped Pancho as a Doberman lounged towards him. He shrieked like a dying hog and grabbed the starched shirt of the officer who had restrained him earlier. Sergeant Brown’s spontaneous instinct to protect Pancho resulted in a solid bullet being placed in the skull of the vicious attacker. Pancho experienced a similar fear to that which he had felt when the unknown creäture had rushed past him on the path from his escapade the night before. The distinct smell of sulphur and smoke coming from the animals coat was even more disturbing.

The arresting officer stared at the owner of the ill-fated dog with a puzzled look. Mr. Pinkett, clearly shaken stared back wordlessly. Simon, the foreman he had appointed a month and a half earlier seemed discomfited by the Officer’s curious stare, turned to seek Pinkett’s eyes. Today will be another eventful day Sergeant Brown thought as he assessed the scene amidst an awkward moment of silence. He marshaled Pancho before him with his fellow lawmen following pensively behind. He turned back to see Mr. Pinkett and his foreman engrossed in what seemed to be a heated argument.

The community of Crawhill lay ahead as the small army marched forward and exited the cemetery. A small crowd cheered them on. Beka, an astute woman stared at the scene before her eyes but relief was soon replaced by sadness when the frightened Pancho turned to gaze at her with the Sergeant gripping the waist of his trousers while eyeballing the tense crowd. The uncanny resemblance of captor and captive set Beka’s mind racing but the sadness in the eyes of both men especially Pancho touched her even more deeply. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Pancho entered the car and held down his head without a backward glance.

As the car sped into the sunset Sergeant Brown turned up the radio to listen to the local news and ponder the day’s event. The monotony of the broadcaster’s voice intruded his thoughts, “The Minister of Industry has told Parliament that a halt will be put on the unregulated export of scrap metal until further notice.” He turned the knob of the radio and sighed as the soothing voice of Whitney Houston permeated his whole being. The blast of a truck horn to his right could not break his concentration. He glanced at his prisoner once more to convince himself that his intuition about the extent of Pancho’s innocence was indeed to be trusted. As they stared at each other, he could sense an unexplained connection between them that made him feel uneasy. It never rains but pours in Crawhill,” he mused then shook his head to regain his composure. Tonight will be a long night for everyone.

As a young rookie, Paul Brown was assigned to the Crawhill Police Station ten
years ago. Prior to that he lived in a farming community west of Crawhill. He had
one serious relationship as a young man in his village but Nora had left the
community unexpectedly and without further contact leaving Paul heart-broken.
His way out of his misery was to join the force and migrate to Kingston for training. He met his wife, Paula, at the Carib Theatre a month before his graduation as a fully trained officer of the law. Paula was in her final year of training at the Mico Teachers’ College nearby. They have been blessed with an adoring son after years of trying to start a family. Samuel and Paula are his lifeline.

“Hi! Dad” Samuel shouted from where he was perched under the tree in the centre of the station yard; PSP game was put on hold as he gazed at the familiar looking face of the man in his father’s grip. Sergeant Brown glanced at the car to his left in which his wife sat reading a book. As he mounted the step, prisoner in toe, his heart leaped to his throat at the sight before him. The arresting officers who had accompanied him to the cemetery had taken the short cut across the river and seemed to have struck gold. Sitting before him, handcuffed to a wrought iron bar was Simon the foreman of Pinkett and Pinkett. In the far corner was Mr. Pinkett staring with obvious shock and disappointment at his ex-employee; now prisoner. He looked up as the pair entered the outer room then shifted his gaze to the floor once more.

“I am certainly glad to see you both,” offered Mr. Pinkett apologetically while scratching his head. Pancho gazed at Simon, not knowing whether to feel ecstatic or apprehensive.

Pancho was escorted to a desk across the room and was being interrogated by the officer on duty. “Your name?” the officer inquired barely looking at the figure seated before him.

“Mi niem Pancho!” he whispered before clearing his throat.

“Mi miin yuh ful niem, bwai! Yah iidiat?” the officer could not control his mirth as he stared at the discomfited man staring back at him in dismay.

“But a Pancho mi niem. Afisa, but mi rait niem a Paal Brown.”

Though enraptured with the story being related to him by Mr. Pinkett and the arresting officers, Sergeant Brown couldn’t resist listening in on the discourse between Pancho and the young officer on the other side of the room. Hearing his given name coming from Pancho’s mouth in his Creole accent prompted his undivided attention.

“Weh yu mada niem?” the officer prodded settling down to write once more only after Sergeant Brown gave him a cold stare from across the room.

“Mi no nuo har ada niem sah, a mi grani mi gruo wid!” Pancho almost whispered. By this time, Sergeant Brown excused himself and instructed the officers to take full statements from the prisoner after reminding him of his rights to procure a lawyer. The Sergeant, without a credible explanation decided to take over the interrogation of Pancho in a back room of the station. The young officer felt usurped by this action and was unsure of what to make of this untypical behaviour by his superior.

After a long discussion with Pancho, Sergeant Brown learned that his mother had died eight days after giving birth to him in Kingston and he was sent by his aunt, in whose care he was left by his mother, to live with Grandma in the little village from which the Sergeant himself grew up. It took Sergeant Brown a good half an hour to relish the meaning of what he just heard. He shifted between an expression of relief in knowing and sadness in knowing that the man Pancho has become was thwarted by his ignorance to his existence before this conversation. It will take awhile to sink in, he thought to himself. He was not sure how he, his family and Pancho will resolve this matter but thought he needed to sleep on the matter after such an eventful day. The Sergeant scolded Pancho severely about his escapade and released him with a note to be given to Miss Beka explaining the turn of events in the capture of Simon the goat and scrap metal thief, vandal and murderer.

Pancho stared at Sarge with relief then thanked him for not sending him to prison. He agreed to have the Sergeant spirit away the stolen goods from his property without anyone knowing about his wrong doing and promised to be a model citizen going forward.

Sarge winced then slapped Pancho on his back and replied, “ You never too old to have a father, from now onward, you can come down and talk to me at any time, okay!”

Paul Brown beckoned the young officer at the front desk and advised him to take Pancho back to Crawhill and to make it known that the criminal who raided and plundered the community was taken into custody.

Two paths lay before us
one lit with dazzling gold;
the traffic is really swift
the other plain and narrow
with snail-paced grit.
Choose your path in wisdom
less you be outwitted
and the glory turns to dust.

Flip Your lenses and see
it is not what it seems
please believe me.Flip

Your lenses and see
it’s turned upside down
it’s not what it seems
believe me.

Look down from above
then up from below
It’s turned inside out
upside down, believe me.It is not half full
it is not half empty,
this crystal is lead
please believe me.it is not brown
It is not the ground
It is not the sky
It is scarlet dew,
believe me.

Wash your groggy eyes
clear your weary minds
then look twice with the soul.
it is not what it seems
now believe me.

The first time we danced
was the night you proposed
We knew there and then
our destiny was settled
Our feet intertwined
as we grooved toe to toe
There we bumped and wiggled
to the slide and twist
Then we both shimmied
down to the floor.

Our eyes talked then
our lips made a pact
The longing was sealed
in your long embrace.
Tonight my love
we have tied the knot,
Just dance with me.

Dance to the rhythm of our hearts
as we did that night
The floor is waiting,
they are playing our song.
Come let us groove
till they dim those lights
Let us create new memories
through this special dance.

Hold me closer, let us sway
in unison to each waltz
As we synchronize each step
our bodies become one
The symbol of the journey
we have begun.

Dance with me my love,
let us rehearse each move
Hurry the night on
till our last guest is gone
Then we will dance
to our own eternal song
for the rest of our lifetime,
just dance with me.

Every muscle
every cell
every silence
streams praise
to you, Abba
for the taste
of your ultimate gift
of life that breathes
into a new day.
May all sing your
unceasing praises
and lift your name
above all fears,
all kingdoms,
all powers, amen.

Soft white lily bobbing your head
to the push of the gentle wind.
Like a boat being tossed by the waves
you sway backwards and sideways
in tune with its rhythm.
Oh how gracefully you glide
as the wind caresses.

East wind of the West soars high
above chasms made of hate and lies.
Your strength known in diversity
clings tight to remnant liberty
where all was one and one was all
left centre stage reality.

Oh Southern wind of Western sky
where black men live and made to die
strangers in toughened skins and hides,
unsure of their identities, lash out in rage
and bitter grief, each day a kinsman’s left to lie

Will selves to float up up on high
o’er rage and hate and senseless fights.
Change now the course of human hearts
where many souls are marked to part
or trapped neath darkened secret lies.
Knees bent below oppressors blow
awaiting change to quell each groan.

Winds of change sweep sea and land
cleanse crust and core of evil hands
Leave nothing undisturbed or neat
unruffled stroke of divers plagues.
Drench each breath with love and joy
carry all pain to mountains high
so mothers, fathers, cousins, child
live cheerful, peaceful chainless lives.

The foolish gathers but in vain
gems, boats, luxury and fame.
The widow gathers painful woes
knowing not which wind will blow.
But she in humble solitude
prays to God in gratitude.

The foolish sailed against the rocks
a life of risks and heartless knocks.
He sails against the mighty waves
no care for lowly mindless slaves.
The widow still in platitude
sang praise to God for air and food.

But when they reached Heaven’s throne
The foolish found he was on his own.
No jet, no boat or real estate
himself stood trembling at the gate.

The angel beckoned to the one
whose grace had overcome and won.
The widow’s faith all mattered then
She’d run life’s race right to the end.

Nothing can be more tuneful
than the charades of early birds
chirping like automated orchestras
humming in refrain to the language of love
in myriads of tongues and tones.
Early Bird catches, watches and sings
till everyone wakes to drink life
before sunrise on the sea of rapturous
nature.

This is bliss.
Consciousness rising,
a Phoenix ready to lift
to an immortal swelled sea of knowing
where everything is nothing
and nothing is all there be,
a sea of unending possibilities.
May thy will be done.

Each sinew speaks as tenseness eases,
the taste of relaxation squeezes
through each pore: each wave
a tingling sensation that connects to the soul.
Stars in the eyes, the mind’s eyes
symphony of peace, being one with self releases.
Singing songs of restitution, restoration, positive vibration,
love surging to a crescendo of exhilarating tons of love.
I love, I do. Peace, now- put up your feet.
Chilaxing and relaxing in love.

As I lay me down to sleep
I pray my God my life you’ll keep
Be the bearer of my soul
Keep me safe and make me whole
Be the light in these weary eyes
to watch and guard each silent sigh
Send an angel on each side
to guard me safely though the night
Make my dream an answer be
to guide my wake in purity
Make each shadow a candle stick
to reveal the devil’s wicked tricks
Clench each dart that comes my way
Bury them safely in Golgotha’s grave. AMEN.

Awaken to searing numbness of prolonged death defied,
the characterized pain broke her wings again and she tipped;
opened the flood gate of dried well; turned her heart inside out
to her God; willed Him to explain silent distance as evil rained nights
of blackened light on tormented follicles and cells under scarred skin.

Over time pain ebbed and she relented to close the morn
but soon the unperturbed implant decided to attack her bowels
with his usual flashing gadget stacked in front militant chest
emitting cloaked rays below the waist.

DNA imprint and script of open terror consciously aimed invisible missiles
with marked intent to sever or maim until later when she lies still and drained
in isolated cocoon cell where evil crawls throughout walls
to bring her under subjugation of collective non-consensual game
of hate and necrophiliacs’ rage that stalks night through walls and skies

when the dumber consciousness of us slumbers preoccupied
and victims weep silently on broken wings waiting and hoping
to survive another day of pretended gait on tipped wings.

When midnight rests
the hornets’ nests
doth wake!
Pilfering fumes of death
in stealth her dreams doth take,
till Gossamer ”s shield
in frenzy shakes his feet,
to wake the night and charge
the dawn to speak.
Then the hornets’ flight
night’s pestilence desists.

Taking God off the pages of Holy Books and putting him in our hearts, thoughts and actions in these perilous times through songs, social media, poems, reflections, video logs and blogs present plethora of ways to seek and rest in God’s presence in 2017 and onwards.

Listening to and reading His words may become tedious for the spiritually oppressed. The battle for man’s soul has heightened in these times. Emerging from this bondage when God is all that’s left and the world provides no other option, the Holy Spirit may turn the darkness into poems and songs to inspire others. Enjoy the journey on this site and pass the love on to others in spiritual needs.

I usher in a rich day;
I am awake and grateful.
Thank you Father for fresh air,
sound sleep, chorus of birds,
the hope today brings.
Thanks for the shield,
the word, the thought,
lessons, the pitta patter.
Amen and Amen.

Every muscle
every cell
every silence
streams praise
to you, Abba
for the taste
of your ultimate gift
of life that breathes
into a new day.
May all sing your
unceasing praises
and lift your name
above all fears,
all kingdoms,
all powers, amen.

The foolish gathered but in vain
gems, boats, luxury and fame.
The widow gathered painful woes
knowing not which wind would blow.
But she in humble solitude
prays to God in gratitude.

The foolish sailed against the rocks
a life of risks and heartless knocks.
He sailed against the mighty waves
no care for lowly mindless slaves.
The widow still in platitude
sang praise to God for air and food.

But when they reached Heaven’s throne
The foolish found he was on his own.
No jet, no boat or real estate
himself stood trembling at the gate.

The angel beckoned to the one
whose grace had overcome and won.
The widow’s faith all mattered then
She’d run life’s race right to the end.

Come tingle the length and breadth of my heart
until I taste the tantalizing breath of
that sacred feeling immortalized in love.

The agape kind of purple and red
that knows no doubt nor in between.
The kind that stops in the throat with no word
to explain the heaving or sighing of the swallow
even when the taste has left and the chocolate river
no longer drowns the unmistakable taste
of untainted love.

God is present in my deepest pain
He lightens the burden when it’s too much to bear.
He lights dark pathways when the feet doth stray
And comforts weary hearts when life implodes
Let us in steadfast hold on to those reins
Knowing in earnest if our grips doth fail
He will anchor those reins in our hands again. Hallelujah!

Yes I know
who holds my hand
guiding, prodding me on
through tunnels of love
and skeletal graves
of whispered hate.
Yes, I know who holds
the future of uncertainty
on this human journey
with a working compass of love.
The ancient omnipotence
holding each star in place
’til the final trumpet breaks
crystal clouds of wrath
to signal the end to new starts
and glory of His son.

Thanks for the Shadows, thanks for the rain
Thanks for new sunshine, thanks for lost pain
Thanks for the healing of the broken
and lost
For knowing your sunshine still warm cold hearts.
Dim the dark voices and light up today.
Joy and new blessings to brighten the way.

Divine love sown in showers
Garlands of peace to sooth brittle thirsty hearts
Clearing heavenly pathways to divine
springs of souls etched in scars.
Cool morning air after Night’s
sacred showers that came and went
just in time to His will.

As I lay me down to sleep
I pray my God my life you’ll keep
Be the bearer of my soul
Keep me safe and make me whole
Be the light in these weary eyes
to watch and guard each silent sigh
Send an angel on each side
to guard me safely though the night
Make my dream an answer be
to guide my wake in purity
Make each shadow a candle stick
to reveal the devil’s wicked tricks
Clench each dart that comes my way
Bury them safely in Golgotha’s grave. AMEN.

Father, this moment is yours ;
I raise a thankful heart of praises
as atonement for my failures.
All pain, all guilt I place under your Grace
to be circumcised, purified and pruned
to reflect you and your design for my life.
I fall and fail to serve your will daily.
Bring me through temptations and ill will.
I love you, Abba! thanks for undeserving love.
Yes, you alone are God and you own life.

He has a keen sense of humour,’ I would often say.
When each impossibility he guided my way
Life’s wretched cruelty may harden my mind
But in God my creator sweet solace I’d find

He has a promptness about Him, always just on time
When my enemies snicker he says ‘You’ll be fine!’
Most of all he knows whatever is best
And often my patience he chooses to test

My God will never abandon me that much I know
Though I often falter, faith in Him I must grow
At times I cannot fathom why His love still remains
His unwilting grace sustains me, during life’s cruel pain

He provides shield and armor in a world laced with fear
Opens bosom of comfort to dry many tears
Led me through countless hazards, traps and regrets
Offers wisdom and courage in each goal I set

I cannot well imagine what my life would have been
Hadn’t he pardoned me and let His spirit come in
Now His joy in me has shattered mine enemies plan
I am sold out to God in every way that I can.

Pain of burnt joy,
melting ice-cold love
dripping from frigid hearts
as we toggle to silent tune
of unprovoked soul-snatching
war against blind anesthesia
where body counts
mount
to secret high
and gates stand ajar
to love.

Melva Davids 2013

(Faith is a gift from God wrapped up in trust and hope. Faith is revealed in the request of Jairus for his daughter’s life, and the woman with the issue of blood. Unwrapping our faith takes Grace and diligence to the Word. His Grace will help in the sense-making of the demonic force that seeks to distract us and devour our souls. God is good and His mercy is everlasting).

If my words do not speak truth;
expose what’s real
If my thoughts do not seek to heal;
my lips you should seal
If my life does not comply
to principles of love.
Remove the veil from my mind
and make me worthily transform.

It glistens in sunlight reflecting dashed hopes;
shattered dreams glowing and sighing at what have been
Onward whispering at each seed of love, each pain and hurt;
an estuary of hope. Creates countless ripples wherever it rests.

Its caressing charm calmly inspires, during twists

through life’s valleys and droughts through life’s trails.

It pleases my spirit when I sit on its bank,
to gather my thoughts and meditate on life’s pranks.
I’d then dived bravely into its fathomless depth
and discover anew life’s burdens have been swept.

So I’ll surrender each breathe to this tranquil delight,
of the river that gives zest to my heart, soul and mind
And pray most earnestly it will never run dry;
for then I would no longer know the joy of true life,
of inner contentment and abundant peace;
The blessings and honor my soul has released.

I tend to ponder and analyze the meaning of men
At lightning pace I’d tried to keep up with the race
But whenever I stumble and nothing makes sense
I’d turn to what really mattered, your wisdom and grace

My greatest fear when’er I seek tides of silk
Where material possessions are the pleasures of sin
I may get all wallowed in this quagmire of greed
Losing sight of what matters, your abundant grace

At times I get side-tracked all wrapped up in self
My shadowy past blocks the light to your path
I’d stumble in darkness until your tender arms reach
Snatch me from those shadows into your fullness of grace

What doth it profit to have accolades of men
When my brother is drowning in hunger and pain?
What doth it matter if I’ve got riches untold
If I stumble and fall from your amazing love?

My fervent prayer as I tread waves of time
Is to stay on this course of power and truth
Your words are my stronghold, when life falls apart
So guide me each day as I seek your true grace.

My mountain top experiences were your divine course
On life’s road I trod, not knowing where I was going
Down in the valley low the many rivers I’d cross
I knew you were standing close, a life line you’d toss

My desert experiences you carried me through
Life changing decisions, you showed me what to do
When tempted or tried your tender voice I’d hear
Those words were my anchor in moments of fear

As I face my new battles being tossed to and fro
Your Holy Spirit is guiding the way I should go
So I place all my sins, all my sorrows and pain
Into your healing hands so you’ll restore me again

In solace he reaches hiding his cares
Your words he reads to comfort his fears
No money, no cure, his reality lies bare
death’s arrow shunted but for a day.

He knows not the Healer whose power still stands
Dear Father I come on bending knees to this altar
I crave wisdom and healing through your anointed words
So I beg first forgiveness for all my many faults.
Remove clouds of doubts so to his soul I can speak.

Strengthen his hearts, you know all his needs.
Restore health and harmony in body, mind and soul
Rekindle his will, his family console so agonizing silence

who in quandary looks on, can replace nothingness
with hope when hopelessness calls

Be physician, provider and ultimate friend
Let thy will be done, Lord let each seek your face
The cancer is yours let your miracle be seen
Speak to his heart so he finds peace within every thought.
Holy Spirit sweet love divine please be his strength.

Father, I have pleaded, placed this case at the cross
The decision is yours, see this battle through.
We are but your hand-made, You know our fate
Let your will be done, Lord as I honor your name

Language, a perceived mundane, taken for granted activity is much more than it is made out to be in many linguistic spaces. In reality, language is an active dynamic entity that is particular to the human species and affects almost every aspect of life itself. In essence, in the social sphere, language assumes the function that water or air provides in the physical world. As such, a clear infrastructural framework to govern this major tool of communication and expression is integral to social coherence, social equity and stability. In the same way that clear policies and practices are necessary to preserve and dispense water to all living organisms in order to sustain and perpetuate life, clear language policies and infrastructures should precede any attempt to organize communities for social living and in effect economic and social progress. However, the reality of many nations faced with chronic economic challenges is that the centrality of clear language infrastructure to economic development, social advancement and social unity is often sidelined in order to focus on fixing the economy or fixing crime with actions and policies that are tangible and measurable; albeit for short term results. Indeed, language as a social construct is an intangible wealth of every society and unless a systemic approach is applied to economic and social planning, language planning as the nucleus to social and economic progress will remain an oversight in many post colonial societies.

The language dynamics of many contemporary Anglophone Caribbean nations with a colonial past have evolved over time to represent a source of social divide where the legacy of the hegemonic relationship between the language of conquest and the languages of contact established on the sugar plantations and in the plantation houses is now mirrored in the social fabric of these societies. Language is still a contested field in many such nations in a linguistic landscape with Standard English the perceived language of prestige linked to wealth, power and or level of education on the one hand is being pitted against the perceived inferior Creole languages which are linked to poverty, disenfranchisement and illiteracy. Despite the impact of globalization and technology that heralded the access to tools of communication in any language upon demand; and despite a shift from monolingual focus to multilingualism on the global linguistic stage, the mindset of many in the region including Creole speakers is that English is the only language of these nations. Any utterance of the means of communication used in informal relationships is perceived as a failed attempt at speaking English.

Many contemporary Caribbean linguists have spent most of their lifetime studying these
dialects and using international standards to establish that Creole languages have distinct structures in terms of phonetics, phonology, morphology, syntax, semantics and pragmatics that make them legitimate languages in their own rights despite an English lexicon base. In the case of Jamaica, the Cassidy Le Page analysis of the Creole Language first presented in 1959 was further developed at the Jamaica Language Unit (JLU) located on the Mona Campus of the University of the West Indies to establish a clear writing system for the Jamaican Creole. This system amplifies the African influence of an English based language vocabulary that allows the Creole speaker a standardized way to write the language he speaks. This achievement serves as an important step to learning other languages including English. The psychosocial benefit of understanding the history encoded in the language that has evolved into Jamaican Creole is far reaching for the average user who now has the tool to immortalize his utterances on a page or screen.

In the case of the Francophone Caribbean islands such as Haiti the situation is more reassuring. French Creole has long been legitimized alongside formal French as a national language. In the case of the Eastern Caribbean, those ‘English-speaking’ islands such as Dominica and St. Lucia that are close to French speaking islands do have the infrastructural policies necessary to frame an authentic cultural identity and allow easy communication and links with their neighbors. For example, Dominica and St. Lucia have established national language policies to give status to the mother language of the masses and the celebration of events such as International Creole Month and Day during October is a yearly ritual that attracts worldwide participation and impact the economy of these countries in tangible ways. Are the islands in the English speaking Caribbean who hold dearly to the monolingual vestige of their colonial identity missing out on the important lessons demonstrated in the French and Spanish speaking territories? In these territories, formal and indigenous languages thrive alongside formal European languages in clearly defined language spaces and functions, so what of the Anglophone Caribbean region especially a culturally distinct country such as Jamaica? Suppose a systemic approach to language planning was applied at the onset of political independence in Anglophone territories including Jamaica, how would these countries have benefited? Here, a systemic approach refers to the recognition that the social world is a living entity where every aspect is linked and both the physical and the social worlds are interdependent in order to effect a fully functioning whole or in this case society. Language as a core variable in this relationship is what sustains the social world and so should be fully aligned to all aspects of planning. What then is language? Language may be defined here, as all the signs, symbols, gestures, sounds, codes that serve to communicate meaning among people. Therefore, we are considering language as a natural complex human experience or construct that emerges where people exist or settle. We are not concerned with artificial language associated with technology or arbitrary meaningful sounds or gestures of some animals.

A fully functioning human needs language to think, solve problems, express emotions and relate to others in a coherent and cohesive way. Therefore, it is important to cultural identity and self identity. Professor Rex Nettleford, Jamaican scholar, termed this human experience of self-worth as the feeling of “smaddiness” using the Jamaican vernacular. At the micro-level, holistic construction of one’s self definition is wrapped up in how language is managed at the macro level of society. How language is managed also informs pedagogical decisions and possibilities within the education system. The link between language, communication, education, culture and self identity is binding. Lev Vygotsky, famous Russian Psychologist identifies language as a key cultural tool that learners use to think and express learning before internalizing thoughts or ideas. Language is therefore important to sense-making in the social and physical world. Jean Piaget, Swiss biologist and cognitive theorist argues that children use language as internal thoughts in mental schemata to understand and reconstruct meaning in their world through processes of accommodation and assimilation.

Clearly, the psychological value of having distinct linguistic identities to achieve high self efficacy in learning situations is as important to the individual as the need for policies to legitimize the mother language of the masses in order to concretize a wholesome cultural identity. In the case of Jamaica, alongside political and denominational affiliations, the legitimacy of the social language of over 97% of the population is still a source of bitter discourse aligned to social and power differentials despite inroads into how the native language is portrayed in the media and popular culture. The ubiquitous natural use of Jamaican Creole in social media setting seems to have added momentum to the acceptance of the native language, especially among the youth population. As such, the furore about the poor achievements of Anglophone Caribbean students in the 2012 sitting of the English A Caribbean Examination may well be as a result of a combination of students over exposure and use of the native language in online print environment where no clear distinction is made when writing English versus Creole.

Traditionally, Jamaican Creole was an oral language reflected in the music and roots theater of the masses. Poems written by cultural icon, the Honorable Louis Bennett-Coverly using the basolect or mesolect forms of Jamaican Creole as well as other literature following in similar strides were mostly performed orally or listened to, thus the written form of the language had no general visible space for active writers prior to these writings and the advent of social media. If the average Jamaican is processing English and Creole in the same mental space, could this be the needed trigger for a clear public distinction to be made between both means of communication? Should appropriate national policies and actions take precedence over economic policies so as to guide how educators and citizens meet, treat and process language?

A recent reflection activity among tertiary first year students revealed that many from Creole-speaking environments found out through traumatic experiences that the home language and school languages were different and Creole speakers were ‘talking badly’ when they used their first language. The delicate self efficacy of these young adults that were thwarted since Primary School still prevented them from willingly participating in formal discussions where English is used in a sustained manner. Some students stated that they only used English whenever they had to write while others stated that they ‘tried’ to use English if they had to. use it. Is this a healthy perception or attitude towards any language especially one that is etched in the personal history and identity of these users? Other students who were from Creole-speaking background attributed their fairly satisfactory competence in using English to their High School experiences where their peers were mainly from English-speaking backgrounds. What conclusions can be drawn from these situations. First of all, to learn a second language one has to be immersed in a speech environment where the language is used naturally. The Traditional High Schools are most likely to first and foremost attract students from middle class families whose children had gone through private Preparatory Schools where English is the dominant language. Students from the public Primary Schools who are accepted in Traditional High Schools are most likely from lower middle class or upper lower class families who have some exposure to a mesolect form of the language. In contrast, most students who end up in Non-traditional High Schools, especially Junior High or All-age schools are from lower class Creole-speaking background and as such the school environment would replicate the home as a Creole-speaking environment.

Interestingly, over the last decade many Non-traditional schools have made strides academically in some areas and are therefore becoming more attractive to local parents. This paradigm shift however can be more far reaching if a National Language Policy were to be put in place to advise the nature of the Language Program that best fits Traditional High schools where opportunities for using and hearing the second language exist naturally. This curriculum would be markedly be in contrast to a program befitting the nature of the Creole speaking culture and makeup of the Non -traditional High School environment. This inequity begs the question, should all Jamaican schools be taught voice and speech or phonetic skills using the International Phonetic System of pronunciation? Should they meet the history of English and Creole as part and parcel of language instruction? With clear language infrastructure, pedagogical soundness and vision, these would be redundant questions.

From the foregoing discussion, it clear that language has power to divide or to unify people. It can empower or disenfranchise individuals or groups. It can oppress, suppress or liberate people. It can be subversive or it can be enlightening or enabling. The extent to which language unifies, empowers, liberates, enlightens or enables is largely dependent on the social infrastructures that individual governments put in place through policies and actions that are linked to long term economic and social goals. Since Language planning is central to social and economic development; legitimizing a dominant language that is linked to power and prestige without equal recognition for the language lived by the majority of the population on a daily basis is tantamount to excluding the majority of that population from participating in decisions that immediately affect them. This act also denies them of a clear language framework necessary to learn a second or third language. As expressed earlier, the French and Spanish speaking territories have put the necessary infrastructure in place to create a healthy attitude towards learning and using language as a living entity necessary to communicate and express human experiences.

In this information driven century, it is important for societies to foster language consciousness among its people. In Jamaica, students from Creole-speaking background are discovering through vicarious and often traumatic means that their home language is not Standard English ‘gone wrong’ but instead, a different way of communicating using a distinctly different set of rules in phonology, morphology, syntax and semantics from that of the officially recognized language. In expressing the truth of their reality, some students argue that they ‘try’ to speak English whenever it is demanded of them while others only use English when they have to write. Increasingly, instructors are finding that many Creole users are not context specific in terms of the use of Jamaican Creole during classroom instructions. Consequently, the use of the native language at the tertiary level during classroom discourse seems to be more prevalent or commonplace as noted by some College Lecturers during a recent faculty discussion. Clearly, the influence of Jamaican Creole on spoken and written expression is often a challenge at this crucial stage where linguistic habits are already ingrained in the psyche of learners with Creole-speaking orientation. One needs to look at how students communicate on social media to see that a natural use of Jamaican Creole to interact in both formal and informal space is ubiquitous even among individuals who consider Standard Jamaican English to be their only language. What is also clear is that this native language acts as a unifying force for establishing regional as well as global links with members of the Diaspora as well as speakers across the rest of the English Speaking Caribbean. This common place application in the classroom is therefore an extension of its naturalness in the social space in which modern communication occurs most frequently. Again, citizens in a contemporary age need to have a critical consciousness of language as well as the role and function of each language during daily interaction in each defined space.

Today, Jamaica is faced with the dilemma of empowering the masses as resourceful communicators propelled by a well thought out language curriculum backed by conscious and clear language planning and implementation strategies and policies. Indeed, language policies must be guided by the fact that the current generation is not hampered or constrained by the prejudices of their immediate ancestors towards the de facto ‘National Language,’ the Jamaican Creole. The attitude of indifference, rebellion or anxiety towards learning English experienced by many is linked to the fact that English is presented to students as a subject to be learned from a text book then ‘passed’ for examination purposes rather than a lived experience. Consequently, for the average Jamaican, English is an agonizing task to be ‘done’ in a book or to be written in an examination. The more enlightened students are those from English speaking language background with many having prejudices towards the perceived ‘non-language,’ Jamaican Creole. The mesolectal speaking individual lies between both extremes but may develop feelings of ambivalence towards both languages without a clear mental separation of the intricacies of the two. The few who establish a healthy understanding of both are true bilingual speakers who can easily transition between both extremes. In the linguistic arena of present day Jamaica, this linguistic versatility can be seen as an act of self-actualization or a liberating linguistic experience. Bilingual conscious individuals represent the contemporary citizens that our school system should mould to have them fulfill active roles in all aspects of societal niches. This begs the question, to what extent are current language curricula nurturing positive attitudes toward both languages of the two extremes described.

It is clear that in an increasingly seamless world, Caribbean individuals should foster a multilingual focus to match the script of inclusion that exists in contemporary global spaces. Surely, in the case of Jamaica, a monolingual focus with hegemonic agenda does not fit the democratic ethos embraced in the essence of the National Motto, “out of many one people.’ A language curriculum for Jamaica should help to elucidate the history behind this motto, thus, accounting for all the people who ‘came’ to Jamaica to create the ethnic mix of the country. Access to Hindi, Mandarin or Cantonese by descendants of East Indians and Chinese should be seen as being of equal importance as access to the European or African linguistic heritage over which intellectuals and social gatekeepers have argued for over fifty years. A monolingual focus or script is indeed obsolete in a world where citizens must be prepared to interact both locally and globally. Moreover, it is crucial for individuals to be grounded in a strong sense of linguistic or cultural identity in this shifting globalized and digitized space. Countries built on immigration may have a different challenge in preserving their own language by operating on principles of assimilation where immigrants are expected to learn the dominant language of that country to be considered ready to integrate into a new culture. On the other hand, Jamaica as a country with citizens having the natural propensity to travel or emigrate need to have a global outlook or divergent view in forging a needs driven language curriculum and perspective.

Before an appropriate language curriculum can be forged, a social infrastructure must be formulated and implemented based on the linguistic conditions within the country. In the case of Jamaica, a National Language Policy that is still in its draft stage has been formulated since 2001 but is yet to be sanctioned by the government. This inaction or impotence may be partly due to frequent changes in political directions over the latter part of the decade. Lack of will, powerful social pressure groups as well as a lack of vision and focus by those mandated to approve this policy in Parliament may also be potent contributors. It is clear though, that until this crucial decision is made to elevate the language status of over 97% of the population to its rightful place of being a validated ‘National Language,’ the foundation to learn other languages cannot be laid. Once this policy is established, the next task would be to raise the consciousness of ordinary Jamaicans to the fact that in a knowledge based seamless global space where Standard English is the Lingua Franca or the language of science, global communication and commerce; it is an act of self enslavement to limit one’s linguistic knowledge to solely the native tongue. Clearly, for the Creole speaker, learning English well should be packaged as an enabling act that determines access to life opportunities and a stable quality of life in an ever increasing computerized age.

In formulating a relevant English curriculum, the notion that English is just a subject content to be taught and learned should be dispelled at all cost. There is the need to embrace and experience Standard Jamaican English as not only the language of productivity but also as an important legacy in the history of the people who settled in Jamaica as a result of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. In addition, the distinction between Standard Jamaican English and other world Englishes should be equally cherished as does the distinction between Jamaican Creole and Standard Jamaican English. The third act in formulating a language curriculum for contemporary Jamaica is to teach the internal structures of both Standard Jamaican English and Jamaican Creole as distinct languages with two separate grammars. This cognitive approach should alleviate the ‘hit or miss’ approach that many Creole-speaking students apply when they speak and write English. For the transitional mesolectal speaker, the ambiguity and ambivalence about language competence in both languages can be clarified. On the other hand, the English speaking Jamaican can develop a deeper appreciation for the Jamaican Creole; it being an exotic cultural good for which there is a global fascination. A relevant language curriculum would then allow access to other languages especially those languages used by neighbouring islands and Latin American nations. As a given procedure, such a curriculum should reflect those languages that represent the Asian and Middle Eastern origins of part of the historical makeup of the Jamaican people.

A wholesome understanding of self is linked to how language is packaged and managed in societies. This infrastructure will affect how speakers relate to self and others globally and locally. It will also affect the marketability of people in a space where cultural merchandising have replaced traditional sources of job creation and income stability. Language is the essence through which culture is expressed. For developing countries, the economic value of clear-cut language policies that inform relevant and current language curricula should not be slighted in the wider scheme of social and economic planning. Many examples from around the region and the rest of the world will corroborate the necessity for clear language vision and curriculum planning to secure social order, social integration, economic growth and a strong sense of solidarity and cultural identity among members of society.

You stole my heart ripped it apart
then threw it to the wind.
A whirlwind came in a mighty rush
claimed all the broken pieces.

Took cells apart, my broken heart
strewn them in diverse places.

So now I stand confused and lost
no heart to warm cold memories.

You stole my heart ripped it apart
scampered away without a thought
of the agony heart faces.Now you stole her heart, ripped hers apart
strewn hers in diverse places
Like an aimless wind you have moved on by
destruction following each pathway.

Your lonely heart now hardened thick still hunting hearts to trample
Berserk and angry soul you are
no heart to give, just taking.

“I must go on,”
the refrain of
an unsightly scarlet blob
of mess I call my heart.
Without recess it pulsates
life giving energy emits
to engulf over- worked brain

“I must press on
to feed masses of organs
and cells that keep this vessel
fully loaded and well.
Moving debris to be filtered
or sent to the dump;
I must press on.”

I listened to your song
and pondered the wisdom
of the craftsman who set
the pump house, filter system,
the drain and main circuit,
the brain to operate in unison;
a self- sustaining rigor
where thoughts and love combine
to sublimely embody me!

Come tingle the length and breadth of my heart
until I taste the tantalizing breath of
that sacred feeling immortalized in love.

The agape kind of purple and red
that knows no doubt nor in between.
The kind that stops in the throat with no word
to explain the heaving or sighing of the swallow
even when the taste has left and the chocolate river
no longer drowns the unmistakable taste
of untainted love.

Wake up love to the beating rain
Let me hear your song again
Tell my heart it is still sane
To laugh and clap and sing of pain
Wake up love to passing hate
Light the way to your open gate
Wake up heart and listen well
Love’s awake each tune doth tell
My sleeping heart in slumber be
Awakens love’s infinity.